Benito Villamarín
Benito Villamarín
League Round 29. The opponent is Real Betis.
The point gap is only 2 points.
It's a 6th-place decider for a Europa League spot.
Winning opens the path to European competition, but losing means a thorny path for the rest of the season.
Betis is not an easy opponent.
Especially this season, having put a lot of effort into strengthening their squad.
The first one that stands out is Morales in the defense.
He's an Argentine center-back who came over from Tottenham, which was relegated from the Premier League.
The team might have fallen, but his physicality and rough defense remain the same.
He's mocked for playing dirty, but regardless, he's a player specialized in erasing opposing strikers.
A guy who jabs at the striker's flank, pulls their jersey, and does all sorts of things when the referee isn't looking.
I can already picture how much he'll be pulling my jersey, being used to the rough pressure of the PL.
'I can't just let myself get pushed around, either.'
If he plays his signature dirty game, I plan to use Click to zero in and twist his nipples.
In the attack, there's the 100 million Euro Brazilian spinning top, Thiago.
Back in his Man Utd days, he was a guy who felt unsatisfied unless he spun around once or twice in place as soon as he got the ball.
Since coming to Betis, his play has become quite decent.
He gets criticized for having no substance compared to his flashy footwork, but that bizarre sense of rhythm is enough to throw off defenders' timing.
His left-footed shot, which he unleashes after spinning like a top, is Betis's powerful weapon.
Anyway, this is a match we absolutely must win.
Because the team's Europa League spot depends on it.
Betis's home stadium, Benito Villamarín.
The green wave and jeers emitted by 60,000 spectators were, in themselves, hell for the away team.
"Puta Villarreal!(Fuck Villarreal!)"
"Fuera!(Get out!)"
As soon as I took my first touch, the sound of whistles, the 'Pitada', poured down as if the stadium were about to explode.
The jeers of Spanish spectators are high-toned and sharp.
The whistles blown by tens of thousands of people simultaneously felt like they were scraping my brain cells beyond my eardrums.
"Chino! Go back and play ping pong!"
"Morales is going to break your legs, mono(monkey)!"
Racist insults and unspeakable, degenerate profanities could be heard vividly from the lower stands.
Honestly, the noise was quite bothersome.
Eventually, the game was stopped.
I went to the referee and informed him that I had heard racist remarks.
"Damn. I'll put a stop to this."
The referee paused the game for a moment at my words.
It was according to the manual.
He called the linesman to share the situation and demanded immediate action from the stadium security chief.
The massive roar of Benito Villamarín faltered for a moment.
The stadium announcer's warning broadcast filled the arena.
"Racist acts can lead to immediate ejection and are a cause for match suspension. We ask all spectators to show mature conduct."
In the front row of the stands, security guards in yellow vests latched onto the three men who had been acting out monkey gestures since earlier.
The bastards resisted, waving their arms as if they were aggrieved, but once the police were brought in, they were dragged out shortly after.
La Liga's racism response manual has been pretty good lately.
Isn't this all thanks to the Brazilian winger, Martyr Igor?
As a Brazilian winger for Real Madrid, he has been a fighter who has fought alone against racists all over Spain for the past few years.
His appearance, shedding tears while taking on the jeers of tens of thousands of people during the away game at Valencia, became the catalyst for exposing La Liga's chronic bad habits to the whole world.
Of course, there's his absence from the Ballon d'Or ceremony, bashing teammates, unsportsmanlike play, and internal politics, but let's move past that as it's a minor issue.
"Assholes!"
Anyway, leaving the fuming Yilmaz behind.
The game resumed.
Betis didn't back down.
If anything, they looked even more venomous.
Betis manager Pereira pushed the defensive line all the way up to the half-line.
A blatant, high-intensity pressure to crush us from the front, even if it meant giving up space in the back.
It was the prelude to a slugfest.
15th minute of the first half. The opening goal belonged to Betis.
The Brazilian spinning top, Thiago, caught the ball on the right flank.
He stepped over as if to show off, threw our team's wingback off balance, and then sent a low, fast cross into the box.
The ball hit the foot of the rushing Betis striker and shook the net.
1 to 0.
The roar of 60,000 spectators shook the stadium like an earthquake.
And in the 35th minute of the first half.
An opportunity came.
Yilmaz intercepted the opponent's pass in midfield and immediately threaded a long pass forward.
The space behind Betis, who had pushed up to the half-line, was completely empty.
I ran with all my might.
From behind, Morales pulled my jersey as if he were going to tear it to shreds.
The guy's fingers dug into the area around my ribs.
"Click."
The world stopped.
In the frozen time, I checked Morales's right hand, which was grabbing my jersey.
And even the angle at which he was putting his weight forward to shove my back.
I turned my body and pressed my arm firmly into the space between his armpits to apply acupressure.
"Click."
"Aaaargh!"
Morales's scream tore through the stadium.
The guy writhed in pain, lost his balance, and tumbled over.
The referee didn't see it.
But under my feet, Yilmaz's delivery had already been delivered.
1-on-1 situation with the goalkeeper.
I chipped the ball over him.
Thump.
1 to 1. It's an equalizer.
The game heated up even more.
Betis pushed their line up again, launching an all-out offensive, and we conceded another goal early in the second half from Thiago's fantastic left-footed curler.
2 to 1.
But we didn't just sit still either.
Mamadou headed in Yilmaz's corner kick, making it 2 to 2 again.
Stamina was gradually hitting rock bottom.
My right ankle was now beyond screaming; it was reaching the point of numbness.
But the louder the jeers of Benito Villamarín became, the sharper my brain cells reacted.
Betis's defensive line was still high.
2 to 2 tie.
The jeers of the Betis fans turned into screams, and green smoke from the flares covered the pitch thickly.
"Puta! Kill them!"
The murderous shouts from the stands hit my ears.
But the pitch was even more vicious.
70th minute of the second half. Betis pushed again.
The Brazilian spinning top, Thiago, started doing his bizarre dance on the right again.
He spun 360 degrees twice in place, then slipped the ball through the legs of our team's wingback, who was about to lose his balance and fall.
The spectators went wild.
Thiago immediately penetrated the box and attempted a left-footed curler.
The ball drew an arc and headed for the corner of our team's goal.
Goalkeeper Reina threw his body, but it didn't touch his fingertips.
Clang!
Thank God, the ball hit the crossbar and bounced out.
Mamadou barely cleared the ball that had bounced out.
"Damn it, aren't you paying attention?"
Yilmaz shouted at the defense.
His face was already covered in sweat and rage.
But the crisis wasn't over.
Betis pushed their line beyond the half-line. It was effectively giving up on defense.
They only wanted a 'slugfest'.
80th minute of the second half. The game was a mess itself.
The ball went back and forth between both teams' halves like a ping-pong ball.
Organization had long since disappeared.
The exhausted players stretched their legs out of pure instinct.
Betis's Thiago caught the ball again.
Just as he was about to spin like a top again, our team's defender Enzo, unable to stand it any longer, kicked Thiago's leg right then and there.
"Aargh!"
Thiago screamed and tumbled over.
Betis players rushed over and grabbed Enzo by the collar.
Yilmaz ran in and shoved them away, and players from both teams got tangled up in a scuffle.
The referee blew his whistle like crazy and handed out yellow cards.
The spectators at Benito Villamarín were now even starting to throw trash.
The game barely calmed down.
5 minutes left.
My brain was already in an overload state.
Even without using 'Click', the world was dizzy.
But I had to put an end to this hellish slugfest.
88th minute of the second half.
Yilmaz, who had cut off Betis's attack, drove the ball forward.
"Kim! Run!"
At Yilmaz's shout, I instinctively penetrated the space behind.
Morales followed with the intent to kill.
My jersey was already torn here and there, no better than a rag.
Yilmaz threaded a brilliant through pass between two defenders.
The ball was delivered to me, low and fast, cutting through the grass.
Morales flew in with a two-footed tackle aimed at my ankle.
The intention to break my leg, not get the ball, was obvious.
Click.
The world stopped.
A silent, black-and-white world.
The dust floating in the air and Morales's madness-filled eyes were preserved.
In the stopped time, I analyzed the trajectory of Morales's tackle.
If I move my right foot 10cm to the side, I can avoid the tackle.
And the position of the goalkeeper visible beyond that.
Perhaps because he was used to Thiago's flashy dribbling, the goalkeeper was turning his body to the left in advance, thinking I would give a feint.
Click.
The world moved again.
In a split second, I pulled my foot away and avoided Morales's tackle.
Morales, who had cut through the air, rolled on the grass as he was.
In front of me, there was only the goal.
I relaxed my strength and pushed the ball accurately with my instep.
It wasn't a grand shot.
The most efficient, the most certain path.
Thump!
The ball grazed the goalkeeper's fingertips and lodged into the right corner of the net.
[ Real Betis 2 : 3 Villarreal ]
In an instant, the 60,000-spectator Benito Villamarín fell into silence.
I ran toward the corner flag and put my index finger to my lips toward the stands.